The Sword Of Medina (7 page)

“If Muhammad had wanted me in seclusion, he could have commanded it,” I said. “He never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That was his indulgence, but it is not mine. When I am
khalifa,
you will not be allowed to venture outside these courtyard walls, for you refuse to behave with the modesty required of the Prophet’s wives.”

Ali turned and walked back into the mosque When he was gone, Talha leaned close to my ear.

“What do you think now,
yaa
A’isha? Are you still reluctant to help me? If Ali becomes
khalifa
we are all lost.
Islam
as Muhammad intended will be a vague memory, and so will you.”

I shook my head as I had so often done these past weeks when Talha had urged me to help him gain the
khalifa
after my father’s rule ended. I had no desire to help anyone fight for power. Yet in that moment I did feel the strongest desire to keep Ali as far from the
khalifa
as possible.

Talha spoke truly: Ali would destroy
islam
with his self-righteous zeal and his rigidity. No one, not even my father, seemed to understand the threat he posed. In
abi’s
eyes, he was a hot-headed youth, nothing more. Only I and Talha knew what havoc Ali might wreak on the life Muhammad had built for us.

“Yes, I’m convinced,” I finally said. “We’re the only ones who can stop Ali. But you have to promise me one thing: When you become
khalifa,
you’ll rule as Muhammad would have ruled.”

He reached out and pulled my wrapper away from my covered eye, then
gazed deeply at me. I blushed, feeling as exposed as if he’d removed my clothes, and glanced quickly around to make sure no one was watching.

“When I’m
khalifa,
I won’t need to try to emulate Muhammad.” His breath smelled of honey. He spoke so softly that I had to watch his mouth to understand him.

“When I’m
khalifa, yaa
A’isha,
you
will rule. Who better to lead
islam
than the one who knew our Prophet best? I might hold the title, but A’isha bint Abi Bakr will be the
khalifa
in truth. And I, your faithful cousin, will carry out your every command.”

Our esteemed
khalifa
had ordered me to observe only, and to file reports of the legendary Khalid’s exploits. I had balked, for in truth, as that mocker Talha had said, to cut off a warrior from fighting is to deprive him of his manhood. Yet, during the year that I rode with Khalid ibn al-Walid throughout Arabia and, now, in the Persian Sawad, witnessing countless heart-sickening murders, I thanked al-Lah many times that I was not a warrior—for then I would have been required to fulfill that demon’s commands.

With a churning stomach and a sickened heart I watched from my horse as Khalid and his warriors hacked the bodies of their victims and spilled their blood into the trickle of water flowing through the
wadi. Please, al-Lah, color this stream the brightest of reds,
I prayed, spitting to eliminate the taste of rust filling my mouth as the blood-smell permeated my nose, my hair, my skin, and my sleep.

For three days Khalid had been slaughtering men in his
djinni
-possessed effort to create a river of blood. First he had killed all the Bedouins who had fought for the Persian empire against his army. Then, when their blood merely disappeared into the dry sand, he had ordered his troops to gather all the injured and dying among our enemies—Persians as well as apostate Bedouins—and he slaughtered them, also, to no avail. Still, he had no river of blood. Finally, this morning, he had ordered his men to round up
all the citizens living in the countryside and, at the suggestion of a local
shaykh,
had the gates opened at a nearby wheat mill to release the waters stored there. The innocents’ blood mingled with the water from the mill created a crimson stream. Now, perhaps, the killing would cease.

Despite my revulsion, I said nothing, as Abu Bakr had commanded. Commentary was not my responsibility on this expedition. I was not an adviser; nor, to my humiliation, was I a warrior, even though I had sworn allegiance to Abu Bakr. I knew that our almighty
khalifa
and his conniving daughter had deprived me of commanding troops for fear that I might lead a rebellion. I had not desired to do so until he refused to allow me to fight. Unmanned, I became more receptive to my uncle al-Abbas’s reminders of my rightful position.
Surely you remember the time when the Prophet likened himself and you to Moses and Aaron. Did not al-Lah say, speaking through His Prophet, “Moses said to his brother Aaron, ‘Take my place among my people; act rightly and do not follow in the way of those who spread corruption?
’” Muhammad, in truth, intended for me to “take his place among his people” as
khalifa
after his death.

The
qur’an,
Muhammad’s recitations, also say, “Will you make in the
khalifa
one who will act corruptly and shed blood?” With these words, my uncle pointed out, al-Lah had foretold the reign of Abu Bakr, for never had there been such carnage wrought in the name of God. Khalid committed his atrocities despite my warnings that Abu Bakr would be displeased. As for me, I would have killed Khalid gladly, and stopped the slaughter. At Umar’s urging, Abu Bakr had sent me to ensure that Khalid was doing the
khalifa
’s bidding, such as dealing respectfully with those who returned to
islam.
But I could do nothing to stop him when he disobeyed.

After one of the first battles, in which he had defeated our invaders with hardly an arrow slung, Khalid spared the lives of all who fell to their knees and professed for
islam.
Yet when he discovered that a group of Ghatafani had slipped away from us, Khalid vowed, “We will find the traitors if we have to comb the desert sands for them.” Forgotten was his promise to return to Medina as soon as he had vanquished the Bedouin rebellion.

He led his army galloping through the parched desert, our animals’ hooves sinking into hot, thick dunes, the sun glaring like an angry eye until even the camels began to swoon. By the time we surprised the Ghatafani
at the Wadi al-Hamd oasis, few of our men could muster the strength to do battle. Yet his warriors’ faintheartedness failed to deter Khalid.

He spied Umm Siml among the Ghatafani, her hair cropped to her neck like a man’s and leather plates shielding her breasts, slashing and thrusting her sword from the hump of a rearing, kicking, belching camel. His eyes bulged in their red-rimmed sockets as he watched her slice through his men.
She is mine,
he breathed before letting out a scream and racing his black steed toward her, his black-robed body folded over the horse’s back so that he could barely be seen. Khalid extended his blade and slashed the backs of her camel’s knees, snapping the hamstrings. Umm Siml’s mount crashed to the desert floor.

The beast emitted a shriek like that of one thousand and one terrified women, but I heard no sound from Umm Siml. She leapt from the animal’s back and whirled to face Khalid, still holding high her singing sword, her chest heaving and her eyes blazing.

Any other man would have followed his opponent to the ground to conduct an honorable fight. But Khalid cared nothing for honor, only for conquest. He wheeled his horse around and yanked on its reins, causing it to rear up and kick Umm Siml in the back. She sprawled forward and our men cheered as Khalid hurled himself from his horse to land on top of her. He then yanked up his robes and committed an atrocity before the eyes of all—except me, for I had the grace, thank al-Lah, to avert my gaze. A collective gasp made me look back in time to see Khalid slitting the woman’s throat with his dagger while he still abused her.

Now, as then, blood glistened on Khalid’s hands and smeared his robes. He approached me, and nausea twisted my guts when he lifted his blood-slick hands to cup my face.

“Be certain to include the deeds of this day in your report to your
khalifa
,” Khalid said. “Let Abu Bakr know that Khalid ibn al-Walid has subdued every apostate who threatened his people.”

I wondered why I would need to tell Abu Bakr anything in Khalid’s stead, since he had been commanded many times to return to Medina. Apparently, he held other desires more dear than following our
khalifa’s
orders. That evening, while the waters still gleamed red and death’s haze hung over the land, he called a meeting.

We gathered in his tent, one fashioned from the hides of twenty lions
that Khalid claimed to have wrestled before killing. Inside, we sat cross-legged in the sand, making a circle around Khalid, who crouched in the center and turned to stare into the eyes of each of us. I could barely bring myself to look at him for fear of revealing my disgust. He smelled of sweat and urine and blood creased his fingernails. I focused my gaze on his clean robes, which he had fortunately had the courtesy to don.

“The invaders we thwarted were only the first of many who have resisted our
khalifa’s
authority,” he said. “When Abu Bakr sent me into Hijaz, he ordered me to subdue those who oppose him. Despite our efforts to restore peace, resisters remain to Muslim rule. There are many in Persia who would subdue
us
.”

He lifted his dagger and held it close to the face of the man sitting before him. The man looked at the dagger, then at Khalid, whose queer eyes shone with a brightness that shrank his pupils to needle points. He then moved the dagger over to the next man, watching his face as if to gauge his reaction to his words.

“I have heard that in Yemama, the Bani Tamim tribe follow a whore named Suhayl who has led thousands astray with her sexual charms. She has also seduced the Bani Hanifa’s false prophet, Musaylima, thus joining two tribes for us to conquer. “

I said nothing, although I knew my silence could be construed as consent or even approval of Khalid’s brutality. I was loath to invite speculation that I opposed Khalid, especially while Abu Bakr suspected me of disloyalty. So when Khalid moved his blade to my face, instead of meeting his taunting gaze I took the coward’s way and shifted my eyes to stare at the tent wall behind his head.

“Tomorrow, we ride to Yemama,” Khalid said, moving the dagger to the face of another man, who broke into a trembling sweat. “Our mission will be this: To kill the apostates. Already the Bani Tamim and the Bani Hanifa have repulsed two teams of negotiators sent by Abu Bakr. By al-Lah, they will not turn us away! We will trample them like a stampede of elephants and make necklaces of their noses and ears. Only then will al-Lah be satisfied.”

“Commander,” one of the Medina
ansari
said in a voice as meek as a child’s, “do you have the authority from our
khalifa
to lead this charge? The tribes you have mentioned have never accepted
islam
, nor did the Prophet force them to.”

Khalid flipped the dagger on its side and pressed the blade’s tip into the
ansari’s
throat. “Here is my authority,” he said. “Is it enough for you, or do you need more?” The
ansari
remained mute and Khalid pulled the blade away, then lifted it toward me again.

I masked my hostility by indolently lowering my eyelids. “Keep alert,
yaa
Ali!” Khalid said with a coarse laugh. “You will leave for Mecca tomorrow bearing reports of our triumph over evil.”

I clenched my hands.
Yaa al-Lah,
I prayed,
please provide me with a way to prevent another massacre.
I wanted to condemn Khalid’s plan as a sin before God, but I said nothing. I valued my life too highly. And I had my
khalifa’s
orders to consider. I was many things in those days—including a coward, I realize now—but I was not a traitor.

While it was true that I had delayed my pledge of allegiance to Abu Bakr, having done so I now desired only to serve him and the
umma
. Abu Bakr’s tactics for achieving the
khalifa
had been questionable, but I shared his goal of preserving
islam
as Muhammad had envisioned it. Khalid’s brutality was a violation of all Muhammad had desired. Except for those who threatened the
umma
directly, no one had ever been forced by the Prophet to convert to
islam
. So instead of protesting, I shrugged. If Khalid discerned my opposition, he might delay my departure until his scheme had been irrevocably set in motion. I needed to return to Medina as quickly as possible to inform Abu Bahr of these new, heinous plans.

The next morning, I performed an act of utter deception by embracing Khalid and promising to sing his praises to Abu Bakr. I rode away from the encampment at a leisurely pace. Once I was out of Khalid’s sight I kicked my camel into motion, sending it racing across the desert, past the grassy pastures on the desert floor which had mystified me, for no date palms or other vegetation grew there, and away from the Tuwayqh Mountains, which jutted like a jagged blade severing the Earth.

I rode through the marrow-chilling nights and the heat-pulsing days with as few stops as my camel could endure, pushing the beast to its limits, compressing what should have been a five-day journey through the Nejd highlands into a two-day trip. Once inside Medina’s gates, I rode directly to the mosque, praying that I would find Abu Bakr in the mosque and also that his daughter would be occupied elsewhere.

Alas, although Abu Bakr did sit on his date-palm stump, A’isha perched
by his side, her wrapper pulled over her face but not far enough to hide the animosity in her exposed eye as I walked into the room. Fortunately, Umar was with them, as well as the benign, smiling Uthman in his usual resplendent attire. Both men arose and greeted me with unexpectedly warm embraces.

I knelt before Abu Bakr and kissed his ring, the signet worn for so many years by my beloved cousin.
Al-Lah, imbue the wearer of this ring with Muhammad’s spirit even now,
I prayed, then stood and delivered the news of Khalid’s atrocities.

As I spoke, Umar’s cheeks and nose reddened as viciously as Khalid’s river of blood. Abu Bakr, however, showed no reaction save for the occasional nod of his head and, when I had finished, a thoughtful tug of his beard.